User blog:SkyrimsShillelagh/Nine Masks for Mother Ashna (Part 6)
Prelude Okay, I know it's been like ages since I did the last part, so here it is. If you need to catch up on the whole thing, it's not that long, since the whole series is only really a novella in length. Nine Masks for Mother Ashna: Part 6 “What do you mean, ‘immortality?’” “The definition of the word, Jean. Take it how it is.” “You mean to say… that you intend to make yourself immortal? With these masks?” Dacian nodded, expression grim for some reason. “They are powerful artifacts. The Dragon Priests were liches of great strength. One of their masks acts as a vessel for the spirit, like a regular lich's talisman. I once had an amulet that did that very thing, and with that mask I will be restored to my full power. If that does not work, the combined power of all the masks will allow me to create a new talisman.” “I see.” Jean murmured. “It is unnatural.” Ira said simply. “This is dark magic. The power of Mannimarico.” Dacian shrugged. “I have fouled myself with darker evils, priestess. And have gone to worse lengths for more simplistic goals than saving lives. I am not disturbed the least bit by my methods or intentions.” “You should be. Arkay frowns on this. Heavily. The gods choose when a man dies. To challenge that is to ask for their wrath.” “Then they try and seek their ‘wrath’ upon me. I have rebuffed them before. And if what I intend to do perturbs you so, you are free to leave.” Ira fell silent, but she didn’t walk away. “I did not think so.” Dacian simply replied. “I’m not sticking around for you, Dacian Bellamy.” The woman said harshly. “But I think your son needs better influence than you.” Dacian frowned, but didn’t rebuke her. The three were walking toward Volskygge, which sat not far away, on a mountain top. He held up his hand. “I will approach alone. You two will remain here. Return to the carriage if you must.” Ira wrinkled her nose. “You brought me to guide you through this ruins.” “I did, but I do not need your services at the moment, make yourself scarce before you irritate me.” Dacian said, dismissively waving at her. He was watching the mountain and frowning. Jean scratched his head, eying his father as the older Bellamy watched the mountain with an unwavering gaze. What is he thinking? ''So much of what papa did made little sense. He showed such cruelty to others, such violence, yet the man had never laid a hand on Jean or any of his siblings. Jean began to understand that much of his father’s attitude was a result of his upbringing. He was a Breton royal and thus did not want to be challenged- to do so was to invoke his anger, anger made only fiercer by years in isolation and a rough life. Regardless, Jean didn’t think that Dacian should dismiss Ira so easily. She was a priestess, she might be able to get to the bottom of what plagued his father. “I do not see you two leaving.” Dacian said aloud, still not looking back at them. Ira huffed, and curtly turned away, walking back towards the carriage. Jean stared at the back of his father’s head for a moment, for some reason wishing he’d turn around and smile at him, then invite him along anyway, but no such thing happened. The boy reluctantly turned away, then followed Ira back to the carriage. “That man!” Ira exclaimed, talking more to herself than Jean. “How anyone woman—no, sensible human ''being—could put up with him is beyond me!” “He isn’t that bad.” Jean piped up in defense of his father, voice a little quieter than he intended to be. It had come out unsure. “Isn’t that bad?” Ira didn’t look down at him, eyes fixed straight ahead as they retraced their steps. She shook her head. “Bah! He’s a child. All rudeness and selfish whims.” Ira looked sideways at Jean. “It is odd, to consider the two of you related.” Jean smiled slowly, a toothy grin slowly stretching across his face. “I’m apparently a lot like my uncle.” “Oh?” Jean nodded. “Not the one I’m named after. He had another brother, Ferdinand. I’m a lot like him.” “Did he spent much time with you when you were a boy, perhaps that’s why?” Jean shook his head. “He died before I was born.” “Oh.” Ira said, shaping the word with her mouth. “Are you kept out of the house often?” Jean shrugged. “Not really.” “What do you mean?” “I’m the oldest. Well, oldest boy. Meaning I’m going to take over the house when I grow up. So I learn finances and things.” “Finances?” “I’m learning how to manage estates, how to kept ledgers and the like. I’ve started to keep a few myself.” Ira blinked. “You. A sixteen year old boy. Is keeping ledgers?” “Yeah!” Jean said, smiling again. Finally, someone took interest. Usually, when he talked about audits, people turned away, thinking it boring. He supposed it was boring, a little bit, he’d thought the same at first, but it grew on you. “Like, we had a profit of fifty thousand Septims come in from an estate,” Ira whistled lowly. “But it wasn’t all accounted it for. A portion of the sum was missing, so I took upon me to track it down.” “Do you mean to say there was a theft? How much was missing?” Jean shook his head. “No, there wasn’t a theft. And as for the amount missing, it was just a few Septims.” “A few?” “Three, to be exact.” “You hunted down three Septims. Out of fifty thousand?” Ira asked, voice flat. “Of course. Because it had to go somewhere. For example, one Septim when missing because a manager loaned a bookie five Septims for carriage money, but he had written it like a four. So when the manager was reimbursed, one was missing. But first, I had pour over accounts and spreadsheets and all kinds of write-ups to discover that.” “For one Septim.” “Yeah. It was some solid work. Pretty neat, huh?” Jean grinned at her. Ira grinned back. “You’re a nice kid.” Jean cocked his head. “Why do you say that?” “Because you are. You’re just very… genuine. It’s a nice quality for a person to have. You shouldn’t lose it. Don’t let your father’s talk of the dark arts bog you down.” “I don’t think he was being serious.” Jean said dubiously. “He might have just been trying to put you off balance.” “Oh no, he was. I can tell when I men means what he says.” ---- Dacian grumbled to himself as he climbed the mountainside, towards the ruin. That damned priestess, attempting to judge him. Dacian needed no judgement. He had made peace with himself on this already. For her to challenge him on it was frustrating to no end. He wondered why the temple couldn’t have given him a more subservient guide. Or perhaps a mute. There weren’t enough good mutes in the world. He froze as he topped the stairs and saw the ruin spread out before him. A basin had been carved out into the rock and then lain with stone. Two massive arches dominated the area, but what drew his attention, was the camp. Men in fine armor moved among the camp, seemingly engrossed in work. The Justicar who sent them. Is he Thalmor, perhaps? Would the Thalmor be interested in Nordic relics? He doubted it was so. Just some mage gone rogue, who was funding his own private project. The Thalmor would use their own people, not hirelings. He assumed that was the case, otherwise- “Ric? That you?” Dacian didn’t move a muscle as a voice spoke up behind him. “No.” Dacian said, slowly. “I am not Ric.” The speaker walked into view. He was a Nordic man, dressed in the same steel plate as the man down at the camp, with a grimy black beard. He wasn’t very good looking, especially with a large wart on his nose. He wore an axe at his hip, but showed no signs of drawing it. “Who are you then?” He asked, scratching at his beard. “I am sent… from your employer.” Dacian answered. Wart Nord nodded, frowning appraisingly. “’Thought so. If you weren’t Ric himself, then you had to be someone important. Nobody who works here wears clothes that ''fancy.” ''Ric. Anaric. It clicked for Dacian. “The Justicar has not shown himself here yet?” Wart Nord shook his head. “Nope. You ‘ere to oversee the pack up?” “The pack up?” “Aye. We got the package out of the crypt, and sent it off to the Maze with the other three.” The Labyrinthian, of course. Of course they had. Dacian was a fool to think that he had been the only one making progress. Anaric had a good number of the masks themselves. If he had gotten a hold of Vokun before Dacian had, they’d be even in number. Dacian had likely just been quicker. Or luckier. “I see. I will report back then.” “I can show you the papers. Make sure you get everything you need. I don’t want him to have an excuse to not pay me, after all.” “No, no.” Dacian said, that won’t be necessary. It was beginning to look like he’d have to kill Wart Nord. He probably should do so anyway. He couldn’t afford to leave witnesses, after all. “You sure?” “I’m sure.” Dacian said, setting a hand on Wart Nord’s shoulder. The man glanced at it. In one swift movement, Dacian closed the space between them, gripping the man’s chin with one hand and his scalp with the other. The warty Nord opened his mouth to scream, but it choked off as Dacian drove a knee into his crotch, dropping him to the ground, and then pinned him with that same knee. Then, with one swift twist of his hands, he snapped the Nord’s neck like a twig. He stood up, wiping his hands off on his trousers, and sniffed. Always dirty work, snapping a man’s neck like that. He missed when he could just use magic for everything. Hell, he missed having other people do all the work for him. He was getting a bit old for all this. He scratched his chin. When was the last time he’d really killed anyone before this journey, anyway? It’d been a while. He looked down at the camp. No one had noticed him yet, but it probably wasn’t a good idea to ponder all this here. He turned on his hell, and made his way down to the carriage. ---- Ira and Jean sat inside, waiting patiently, and Dacian soon appeared in the window. “It’s not here.” The ex-lich informed them. They both started. “What, but you said-” Ira began, but Dacian silenced her by raising his hand. She glared at him in response. “It’s been moved, to our final destination. So have the last two. It appears someone has done our work for us.” He smiled, and Jean grinned in return. “We are almost finished. It is not far from here. Perhaps a half days ride.” Dacian said as he climbed up into the driver’s box. He’d fired the actual driver back in Markarth for “not making the horses fast enough.” Jean stared out the window as he heard the crack of the reins, and then watched as the scenery began to roll by. Something nagged his gut, but he could place a finger on it, but it had to do with Dacian’s whole explanation of lichdom. A lich had to create his own talisman from his soul, infusing it in the device, as Jean had come to believe. If the talisman was broken, the soul returned to the lich’s body and he lost his immortality. Yet, if that were the case, how could another lich’s mask work in that way? It would already be filled with another mage’s soul. That left Jean to two conclusions: Either his father was wrong or lying. Part 7 Category:Blog posts Category:Return of the King Category:Stories